Emma Anderson lived a life that seemed enviable on the surface. She was gentle, approachable, and effortlessly kind—the type of girl who remembered birthdays, offered to share her notes, and always smiled at passing classmates. Her chestnut hair shimmered in the sunlight, her green eyes sparkled when she laughed, and her presence brought comfort to those around her. People adored Emma because she never made enemies.
But beneath the warmth of her smile lay something darker—a persistent whisper of inadequacy. For all her beauty and kindness, Emma never truly believed she was enough. Admiration came her way, yes, but it always felt secondhand, as if borrowed from the glow of others rather than her own light.
That glow, more often than not, came from Mia.
Mia was Emma's best friend—her shadow, her mirror, and her rival, though Emma would never admit it aloud. Mia didn't just enter a room; she commanded it. Her confidence was effortless, her beauty striking, her charisma magnetic. She wore her charm like a crown, while Emma clutched hers like a borrowed necklace, terrified it would slip off. The two were inseparable, yet Emma could never ignore the gnawing sense that when people looked at them together, it was Mia they truly saw.
When the announcement came for the Student Council elections, Mia was nominated for vice president. Emma congratulated her with a wide smile, clapping louder than anyone else. But inside, envy flared like a hidden flame. She, too, had been considered—but the nomination passed her by in silence. People thought of Emma as kind, approachable, sweet. But when it came to leadership, they saw Mia.
That envy began to poison Emma's thoughts. She started obsessing over her reflection, lingering longer in front of mirrors, practicing smiles and poses, trying on different clothes. She began to study Mia's every move: the way she walked with her shoulders back, the way she spoke with certainty, the way her presence demanded attention. Emma tried to imitate it, but imitation only made her more aware of her own cracks.
During the campaign debates, Emma sat in the audience as Mia took the stage. She wore her confidence like a tailored suit, addressing the crowd with clarity and fire. Emma smiled and clapped along, but her hands trembled. Every word Mia spoke carved a deeper wound: That should have been me. Why isn't it me?
Afterward, some classmates congratulated Mia and complimented Emma for being "such a supportive friend." The words stung. Supportive. Not radiant. Not unforgettable. Just supportive.
The envy grew until it was unbearable. Emma began whispering doubts to herself in the dead of night, staring at her reflection in the mirror. She's nothing without me. I've been here since the start. Why does she always shine brighter?
Yet despite the resentment bubbling within, Emma could never bring herself to betray Mia outright. Instead, she carried her envy silently, wrapping it in layers of smiles and nods. The more she concealed it, the more it consumed her.
Election Day arrived, and Mia won the vice presidency with ease. The applause was thunderous, the admiration overwhelming. Emma clapped along, but her chest felt tight, her smile brittle.
That afternoon, she locked herself in the bathroom and stared into the mirror, her reflection fractured by the cracks in her own confidence. Her beauty was there—her smile radiant, her eyes sparkling. But it wasn't enough. Not compared to Mia.
She whispered to her reflection, voice trembling with equal parts pride and bitterness:
"I should be happy for her. I am happy for her. But why does it hurt so much to always be second to her light?"
Emma Anderson was beloved, admired, even cherished. Yet beneath it all, she was consumed by envy—an envy that no one could see, hidden behind the smile that made her everyone's favorite.
One afternoon, while browsing at a local bookstore, Emma stumbled upon a book that somehow didn't look that trendy at all—she bought it anyway. The cover was not that much, but the very first page had a weird, eerie image that somehow caused an illusion—Emma stared at it for hours.
The book was entitled EVIE, and the main character somehow matched her, and they both had a lot in common; that made her sympathize with the nature of the MC a lot.
After finishing the book, Emma closed the cover with a mix of satisfaction and longing. The main character's journey resonated with her deeply, reflecting her struggles with self-acceptance and the complexities of navigating high school relationships. Emma felt a profound connection to Evie, admiring her resilience and the way she embraced her uniqueness despite the obstacles she faced. But as Emma would soon discover, the challenges she was about to face would far exceed those that Evie encountered.
It all started innocently enough. Emma felt a surge of lostness after reading the book.
The next day Emma was shocked to see the profound changes in herself. Her features were altered by a noticeable weight loss; her skin was peeled and raw, marred by wounds that wept and bled. Mysterious flower buds had bloomed within the range of her skin that got wounded, each one a grotesque testament to her suffering. One thing she noticed was that there were tiny eyes surrounded by delicate petals, blinking at her with a malevolent curiosity. Just exactly the descriptions that she read in the novel.
Panic surged through her as she tried plucking them out, her hands shaking with a mix of horror and determination. With every tug, pain radiated through her body, yet an insatiable urge drove her to continue, as if the act of tearing these grotesque blossoms from her flesh might liberate her from the torment. She winced and gasped as she endured the heavy bleeding, each removal leaving a gaping wound behind, only for new flower buds to emerge within minutes, sprouting in relentless numbers.
The blooming buds began to sprout at an alarming rate, intertwining with her veins like twisted vines spreading through her body. Emma stumbled back, horrified by the sight of petals unfurling, seemingly fed by her own blood.
As she staggered through the hallways of her school, Emma could feel the tiny eyes watching her, judging her every move. The whispers of her peers echoed in her mind, and she imagined their gazes filled with pity and horror. The petals began to grow larger, brushing against her skin and drawing attention from others.
"Emma, are you okay?" a classmate asked, but the concern in their voice felt hollow, as if they were merely observing a tragic spectacle. Emma's heart raced; she felt trapped in her own body, multiple huge wounds on her face as if she was beaten up—others couldn't help but stare at her.
Days passed, and Emma's condition worsened. The buds multiplied, transforming her into a grotesque figure, each flower blooming more vibrantly than the last, feeding off her suffering. Her skin was a patchwork of wounds and petals, each one throbbing with life, while she felt herself fading into a shadow of her former self.
In her most private moments, she would scream in frustration, tears mingling with the blood that soaked her clothes. The more she tried to escape this nightmare, the more entrenched she became.
Emma felt a deep-seated resentment growing within her, a sense of betrayal by her body. The flowers seemed to thrive on her anguish, and with every ounce of despair she felt, they bloomed more brilliantly. She spent hours in front of the mirror, attempting to tear them away, but her efforts were in vain. Each time she removed one, another would spring forth, almost laughing at her futile attempts.
One fateful night, Emma's anguish reached a breaking point. She locked herself in her room, surrounded by darkness, and the only light came from the faint glow of the flowers that had overtaken her. The room felt like a prison, the petals casting eerie shadows that danced on the walls.
In a moment of madness, Emma sought a release from the agony. With trembling hands, she grabbed a pair of scissors, convinced that cutting away the blooms would free her from their grasp. She pressed the cold blade against her skin, and the sharpness provided a momentary relief from the emotional turmoil raging inside her.
As she began to slice away the petals, a surge of pain coursed through her. Blood flowed freely, mingling with the remnants of the blossoms. But instead of relief, she felt a deep, gnawing emptiness. The wounds were raw and exposed, but even as she inflicted pain on herself, she could feel the blooms fighting back, roots gripping tightly within her.
Each time she thought she had severed their connection, new buds emerged, more vibrant and grotesque than before. The tiny eyes blinked faster, and the whispers grew louder, taunting her, echoing her deepest insecurities and fears. Emma felt herself slipping, drowning in a sea of despair as the flowers continued to multiply, encroaching upon every inch of her body.
In a last desperate attempt to reclaim her own being, Emma stumbled outside into the night, her body a grotesque canvas of vibrant blooms and blood. She collapsed in her bathroom tub, the water reflecting the chaotic turmoil that had consumed her. She wanted to scream, to let the world know the agony she had endured, but instead, she found herself drawn to the depths of the water, where the shadows whispered promises of peace.
As she submerged herself, the water swallowed her whole, pulling her deeper into its embrace. The flowers began to wither, losing their vibrant colours as the coldness seeped into her bones. But even as she sank, the tiny eyes remained, watching her with a haunting gaze that pierced her soul.
In those final moments, as the darkness closed in around her, Emma realized the truth: she had become a prisoner of her emotions, unable to escape the pain that had taken root within her. The water enveloped her, drowning her sorrows and desires, leaving behind nothing but a faint memory of the vibrant girl she once was.
When Emma was finally discovered, it was too late. The flowers lay wilted and lifeless, a haunting reminder of the battle she had fought against her own darkness. Her classmates saw her drowning and immediately rushed her to the hospital—but everything was too late.
Just like Evie, her story became a cautionary tale.
The flowers that embedded her and the eyes she was afraid to seek out—had given her horror at her own death.